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THE 


REMEMBRANCES 


A    POLISH    EXILE 


ALBANY  : — PRINTED. 

PHILADELPHIA  I 
REPRINTED  FOR  A  POLISH  EXILE. 

1835. 


163. 


C.  SHERMAN  &,  CO.  PRINTERS,  PHILADELPHIA. 


DEDICATION. 


aartrtcs  of 


The  passag-e  bird,  that  seeks  the  southern  skies 

When  o'er  his  native  land  the  winter  lowers, 
Looks  all  enraptured  on  the  brilliant  dyes, 

And  drinks  the  perfume  of  the  southern  flowers  ; 

And  then  he  sings  around  their  sunny  bowers 
The  songs  of  his  own  land  —  as  to  repay 

Them  for  beguiling  him  of  weary  hours 
By  their  unrivalled  beauty  :—  Even  as  he, 
The  Exile  sings  his  song-—  unworthy  though  it  be. 

A.  J  --  . 


INTRODUCTORY  REMARKS. 


WHAT  American  has  not  felt  his  heartbeat  syn> 
pathetically  to  the  sad  and  tragical  story  of  the  des- 
tinies of  Poland  ?  We  cannot  take  the  most  super- 
ficial glance  at  her  history,  without  being  impressed 
with  the  conviction  that  we  are  contemplating  the 
fortunes  of  a  brave  and  generous,  and  deeply  af- 
flicted nation.  Her  history  is  little  more  than  a 
record  of  budding  hopes  and  withering  disappoint- 
ments ;  of  many  struggles  for  freedom,  and  the 
writhings  of  a  broken  spirit.  We  contemplate  the 
fruits  of  her  genius  with  a  sentiment  of  veneration, 
while  we  think  how  bright  a  star  in  the  intellectual 
firmament  she  might  have  been,  if  her  great  minds 
had  not  had  their  energies  crippled  by  the  hand 
of  oppression.  We  behold  here  and  there  a  gleam 
of  light  falling  upon  the  darkness  of  her  prospects, 
and  we  share  with  her  in  the  delightful  hope  that 
it  may  prove  to  be  a  presage  that  all  that  darkness 
is  soon  to  break  away.  We  follow  her  into  the 
scenes  of  her  weeping  and  wo,  of  her  captivity  and 
desolation  f  and  as  we  see  her  ground  to  the  dust 
1* 


6 

and  her  enemies  riding  over  her  in  triumph,  our 
iijarts  alternately  bleed  with  sorrow  for  her  mis- 
fortunes, and  burn  with  indignation  toward  the  au- 
thors of  them.  We  pause  by  the  grave  of  her 
liberty  ;  and  we  cannot,  and  would  not,  repress  the 
aspiration  that  liberty  may,  ere  long,  rise  from  that 
grave  in  the  freshness  of  a  renovated  existence, 
and  make  the  very  land  from  which  she  had  been 
exiled,  the  theatre  of  her  brightest  glories.  We 
remember  that  for  our  own  national  freedom  we 
are  partly  indebted  to  the  sacrifices  and  the  blood  of 
her  sons  ;  while  we  embalm  in  our  hearts  the  me- 
mory of  those  who  have  suffered  for  us,  we  gladly 
recognize  the  common  obligation  of  gratitude  under 
which  they  have  laid  us  to  their  country ;  and  so 
long  as  we  breathe  the  air  of  liberty,  we  will  not 
cease  to  sympathize  with  her  in  her  calamities, 
and  to  pray  that  the  rod  of  her  oppressors  may  be 
broken. 

It  is  well  known  that  one  of  the  effects  of  the 
recent  revolution  in  Poland  has  been  that  many  of 
her  unfortunate  sons  have  been  exiled  from  their 
native  land,  and  that  a  considerable  number  of 
them  have  sought  and  found  a  home  on  our  own 
shores.  Our  countrymen,  who  had  waited  with 
deep  interest  the  event  of  their  revolution,  and  had 
sincerely  and  keenly  sympathized  in  their  suffer- 
ing lot,  were  prepared  to  welcome  them  in  the 


spirit  of  fraternal  kindness  ;  and  at  no  distant  period 
after  their  arrival,  most  of  them  were  provided 
with  places  in  which,  by  their  own  exertions,  they 
might  secure  to  themselves  an  adequate  support. 
About  thirty  of  them  came  to  this  city,  some  of 
whom  still  remain  here,  industriously  fulfilling  the 
duties  of  their  respective  stations  ;  while  others 
have  scattered  to  different  parts  of  the  country. 

Among  those  who  have  resided  in  this  place  is 
the  young  gentleman  who  is  the  author  of  this 
little  work.  He  belonged  to  a  family  of  great  re- 
spectability in  his  native  country,  and  has  evi- 
dently received  an  education  of  a  superior  order. 
During  the  few  months  that  he  has  resided  here, 
he  has  been  occupied  principally  in  learning  the 
English,  and  teaching  the  French  languages  ;  and 
his  uniformly  amiable,  discreet  and  gentlemanly 
deportment,  has  secured  to  him,  in  an  unusual 
degree,  the  respect  and  friendship  of  all  who  have 
had  the  pleasure  of  his  acquaintance.  Since  his 
residence  here,  he  has  found  leisure  to  write  this 
small  work,  and  I  have  been  requested  to  write  a 
few  lines  to  introduce  it  and  its  author  to  the 
American  public.  I  comply  with  the  request  with 
pleasure,  partly  because  the  writer  is  a  stranger 
to  most  of  his  readers,  and  may  fairly  claim  an 
introduction  to  them  ;  and  partly  because  I  am  sure 
they  will  thank  me  for  bringing  them  into  com- 


8 

pany,  though  it  be  but  for  an  hour  or  two,  in  which 
they  will  find  so  much  entertainment.  I  can  truly 
say,  that  in  going  over  with  these  pages  the  prevail- 
ing sentiment  which  I  have  felt  has  been  that  of 
astonishment,  that  a  youth  of  nineteen,  who,  nine 
months  ago,  was  scarcely  able  to  speak  a  word  of 
English,  and  who  has  had  no  resources  from  which 
to  draw  but  his  own  memory  and  invention,  could 
have  produced  such  specimens  of  English  Poetry 
and  Polish  history  as  this  volume  contains  ;  and  I 
can  scarcely  doubt  that  all  who  read  it  agree 
with  me,  that  it  indicates  a  genius  which  might  in 
the  progress  of  its  developement,  shed  glory  on 
any  country.  There  is  much  here,  especially  in 
regard  to  the  literary  history  of  Poland,  which 
will  be  new  to  nearly  all  American  readers ;  and 
the  whole  volume,  if  I  mistake  not,  will  be  found 
to  be  enriched  with  interesting  facts  and  beautiful 
conceptions.  The  author  of  the  work  is  about  to 
leave  this  city  with  a  view  to  meet  a  near  relative, 
who,  he  has  recently  ascertained,  resides  in  Mexi- 
co :  may  the  protection  and  blessing  of  a  good 
Providence  attend  him  ;  and  though  he  is  destined 
now  to  sing  the  song  of  the  exile  in  a  strange  land, 
may  he  live  to  see  the  day  when  he  can  exercise 
his  genius  in  writing  of  the  deliverance  of  his 
country. 

W.  B.  SPRAGUE. 
Jllbany,  January  30, 1835. 


PREFACE. 


THERE  is  a  time  in  our  lives,  when  all  our 
thoughts  wander  back  to  the  past  for  their  nourish- 
ment. This  is  a  dark  moment,  for  it  comes  only 
when  we  cease  to  be  excited  by  the  brilliancy  of 
the  present  or  the  hopes  for  the  future.  This  time 
came  but  too  soon  in  the  life  of  the  exiles.  Wan. 
dering  and  alone,  our  only  treasures  are  remem- 
brances. Thinking  that  these  can  interest  some,  I 
have  thought  to  communicate  them  to  the  public. 
But  when  I  began  to  remove  the  ashes  of  my  me- 
mory, so  many  spectres  rose  before  me  that  I  again 
buried  them  in  my  own  breast.  I  intended  to 
write  a  history,  but  I  have  written  but  fragments. 
If  there  are  any  who  are  interested  in  the  fate  of  a 
great  nation,  which  loved  freedom  so  much,  and  is 
now  in  bondage,  which  once  celebrated,  exists 
now  no  more,  they  will  be  curious  to  know  some- 
thing of  its  education,  its  poetry,  and  its  senti- 
ments. Having  no  library  to  refer  to,  but  my 
own  memory,  writing  in  a  language  but  little 
known  to  me,  and  assisted  by  some  persons,  by 


10 

whose  care  it  is  published,  I  have  found  it  impos- 
sible to  give  a  sufficient  description  of  them.  Be- 
sides the  essays  on  poetry  and  education,  I  have 
joined  a  few  other  fragments  in  the  form  of  an  ap- 
pendix and  a  short  story. 

These  Polish  flowers  are  poor  and  colourless ; 
but  if  the  ladies  of  America  will  sometimes  look 
on  them  and  think  of  the  giver,  he  will  be  amply 
repaid  for  collecting  them. 


ESSAY  ON  POLISH  POETRY. 


IN  speaking  of  the  poetry  of  Poland,  I  shall  not 
only  mention  our  writings,  but  our  thoughts  ;  not 
only  our  verses,  but  our  sentiments.  And,  indeed, 
where  shall  we  look  for  poetry  if  not  in  the  heart  ? 
And  the  more  hearts  that  feel  and  understand  that 
poetry,  in  a  nation,  the  more  that  poetry  becomes 
national.  The  poetry  of  Poland  is  her  legitimate 
daughter.  She  has  all  her  characteristics,  melan- 
choly and  gay,  warlike  and  patriotic.  The  mis- 
fortunes of  our  country,  its  bondage,  together  with 
the  strongest  desire  for  liberty,  has  given  a  poetic 
cast  to  our  lives,  our  thoughts  and  feelings.  A 
Pole  lived  always  between  hope  and  remembrance, 
and  entirely  in  the  abstracted  world  of  his  own 
thought.  His  sentiments,  chained  by  the  iron 
hands  of  despotism,  were  shut  in  his  own  heart 
to  exhalate  there  in  mystery  and  silence,  and  there 
they  created  a  totally  ideal  world.  In  this  man- 
ner a  Pole  exalted  in  himself  the  love  of  his  na- 
tive country  till  that  became  his  poetry,  his  ideal, 
his  all.  This  love  was  not  only  a  common  love 


12 

of  political  independence,  but  it  had  that  ancient 
Roman  enthusiasm,  duke  is  pro  patria  mori,  and 
the  word  native  country  was  a  personification  of 
all  virtue  and  of  all  happiness.  And  was  this  not 
the  poetry  of  the  heart?  In  times  more  free, 
during  our  revolution,  poetry  passed  from  the 
heart  to  the  lips,  and  our  soldiers  sung  in  the 
midst  of  the  battle's  rage,  their  favourite  patriotic 
songs,  which  sounded  from  their  lips  like  the 
thunder  from  the  thunder-cloud  ;  while  our  maid- 
ens sat  at  their  cottage  windows  and  watched 
through  their  tears  for  the  dust  of  the  horses,  and 
the  banners  of  the  Lancers  and  Krakus.*  Even 
in  the  time  of  our  political  death  we  died  as  the 
Indian,  and  sang  our  death  song  in  the  midst  of 
tortures. 

Nevertheless,  returning  to  the  written  poetry, 
that  we  had  not,  till  later  times.  Since  the  six- 
teenth century  we  have  had  verses,  many  imita- 
tions of  the  ancients,  but  they  have  no  national 
characteristic.  Krochanowski,  who  was  the  first 
who  began  to  write  verses  in  Polish,  had  polished 
our  language  and  given  us  models  of  versification, 
but  he  had  not  the  merit  of  originality.  His  odes 
have  some  energy,  but  they  are  almost  all  weak 

*The  Light  Polish  Cavalry,  the  most  valorous,  and 
the  most  praised  in  the  popular  songs. 


13 

copies  of  the  Greek  and  Latin.  His  elegies  on 
the  death  of  his  daughter,  have  the  most  merit. 
They  have  that  naivete  of  sentiment  that  renders 
them  extremely  sweet  and  tender,  and  in  these 
he  was  not  guilty  of  imitation,  he  imitated  but  the 
tones  of  his  own  heart.  Nevertheless,  he  formed 
a  school,  and  many  other  imitators  followed  him, 
but  few  with  success,  and  it  is  unnecessary  to 
mention  their  names,  as  they  had  little  merit, 
even  in  the  eyes  of  their  countrymen.  Szyma- 
nowicz  was  a  writer  of  pastorals,  and  it  is  to  be 
regretted,  that  with  such  talents  as  he  displayed, 
he  had  not  seized  upon  the  popular  songs,  and 
given  to  his  pastorals  a  national  tone.  But  the 
fashion  of  copying  prevailed,  and  he  remains  only 
an  imitator. 

In  the  middle  of  the  17th,  and  beginning  of  the 
18th  century,  the  exterior  and  interior  wars  exiled 
all  the  muses  from  our  country.  Although  these 
disastrous  times  were  not  without  glory  to  Poland, 
although  the  victories  of  Sobieski,  and  the  delivery 
of  Vienna,  had  caused  her  name  to  be  celebrated  in 
all  Europe,  yet  we  find  no  traces  of  song  but  those 
which  are  written  on  her  land.  The  letters  are  the 
graves  of  her  sons,  which  are  deserted  by  even 
nightingales  to  chaunt  their  dirge. 

The  18th  century,  the  age  of  the  regeneration  of 
letters  and  education  in  Poland,  was  not  the  age  of 
2 


14 

poetry.  Naruszewicz,  our  celebrated  historian,  was 
not  happy  in  his  poetic  career.  His  writings  have 
more  of  declamation  than  enthusiasm.  Karpinski 
is  a  tender  writer  of  Idyls,  and  although  he  has 
nothing  grand,  yet  he  has  the  power  to  soften  and 
sadden  the  heart.  His  virtuous  soul  pervades  his 
writings,  and  he  will  remain  as  a  first  writer  of 
eulogies  in  our  literature.  At  the  same  time  Bishop 
Krasicki  distinguished  himself  by  destroying  many 
national  vices  by  the  bitterness  of  his  satires.  His 
heroi-comic  poem,  Monochomachia,  or  the  war 
of  the  monks,  is  the  finest  satire  on  the  prevailing 
system  of  education  in  the  religious  colleges.  The 
declamatory  speeches  of  the  monks,  full  of  words, 
but  empty  of  all  subject,  and  their  syllogistic  dis- 
putes, void  of  reason,  are  seized  upon  and  lashed 
with  the  keenest  wit.  This  work  had  the  most 
influence  in  changing  the  prevailing  system  of  edu- 
cation. His  satires,  properly  satires,  are  all  ex- 
cellent ;  the  best  are  the  "  Fashionable  Wife," 
"  Drunksrd,"  and  "  Gamester."  These  are  su- 
perior to  the  master-pieces  of  Horatius. 

Thus  we  had  satirical  poetry,  but  not  yet  poetry 
of  the  heart. 

In  the  beginning  of  the  former  century,  Niem- 
cewicz,*  whose  writings  are  patriotic  and  useful, 

*  In  speaking  of  Niemcewicz,  I  cannot  refrain  from 
giving  a  slight  sketch  of  his  history,  as  he  has  since  been 


15 

wrote  historical  songs.  They  are  the  first  which 
have  national  characteristics,  but  they  could  not 
yet  make  an  epoch  in  the  literature.  At  this  time  a 
taste  for  foreign  literature  prevailed,  and  our  poets 
translated  and  imitated,  but  wrote  little  original. 
The  French  school  was  preferred,  Voltaire  and  Ra- 
cine much  copied,  and,  indeed,  until  the  time  of 
Mickiewicz,  (of  whom  we  shall  speak,)  the  gar- 
dens of  our  poetry  bloomed  only  with  the  faded 
and  artificial  flowers  of  the  French  literature.  But, 
in  the  mean  time,  as  poetry  gradually  arose,  the 

an  American  citizen.  Educated  at  the  court  of  Prince 
Czartoryski,  the  cradle  of  so  many  of  our  patriots,  his 
after  life  was  a  model  of  public  and  private  virtue.  He 
came  to  America  and  fought  at  the  side  of  Kosciusko  for 
the  liberty  of  the  land  of  Washington.  Returning  to 
Poland,  he  was  elected  deputy  to  the  celebrated  Diet 
of  1788,  where  he  distinguished  himself  by  his  elo- 
quence. But  the  defence  of  his  country  called  him 
again  to  the  army,  and  fighting  with  Kosciusko,  he  was 
imprisoned  with  him.  After  his  liberation  he  returned 

again  to  America,  where  he  married  Miss  L ,  and 

remained  many  years.  In  Napoleon's  time  he  returned 
again  to  Poland,  and  devoting  himself  to  science  and 
literature,  he  became  President  of  a  learned  society 
there.  He  wrote  in  several  departments,  but  as  a  his- 
torian and  novelist,  he  enjoys  the  highest  reputation. 
In  our  revolution  he  was  looked  upon  as  the  personifica- 
tion of  virtue  and  patriotism. 


16 

political  death  of  our  country  cast  a  deep  dark 
gloom  over  the  minds  of  the  people,  and  they  al- 
ready sang  in  the  depths  of  their  heart,  the  strong- 
est poetry  of  feeling,  and  even  prepared  to  enter 
fresh  and  bright  into  the  great  field  of  national 
literature. 

Our  popular  poetry  has  two  branches ;  first  the 
songs  of  Podolia  and  Ukraina,  and  second,  those 
of  Cracovia.  The  poetry  of  Podolia  is  the  child 
of  an  unhappy  and  romantic  country,  often  ra- 
vaged by  the  Turks  and  Tartars — lately  destroy- 
ed by  the  Russians.  It  is  sad  and  melancholy. 
Ukraina  was  the  residence  of  the  Polish  Cossacks. 
This  warlike  people,  so  strange  and  wild  in  their 
feelings,  had  their  own  proper  valiant  poetry.  Its 
ruins  yet  exist,  and  from  them  our  modern  poets 
have  taken  the  base  of  the  national  characteristics. 
The  subjects  of  the  songs  differ ;  sometimes  they 
are  composed  in  honour  of  heroes,  battles,  and 
great  events  ;  sometimes  they  are  fantastic,  and 
resemble  the  Scotch  ballads.  But  oftener  they 
have  no  subject,  and  are  but  an  expression  of 
feeling,  a  tone  of  the  heart,  as  this  song  : — 

Tell  me,  tell  me,  little  tree, 
Who  on  this  spot  has  planted  thee  ? 
Did  the  birds  your  young  seeds  bear, 
Or  the  wild  winds  waft  you  here, 


17 

Or  grew  you  mid  the  storms  and  snows 
Of  yourself,  as  young  love  grows  ? 

The  birds  did  not  my  young  seeds  bear, 
Neither  winds  have  blown  me  here, 
Nor  grew  I  here  mid  storms  and  snows 
Of  myself,  as  young  love  grows. 
But  a  young  sister  planted  here 
My  seed,  that  I  might  deck  the  bier 
Of  her  loved  brother.    As  I  grew, 
Her  tears  to  me  were  like  the  dew, 
She  sighed  o'er  me  and  her  sweet  sighs 
Were  like  the  wind  of  autumn  skies, 
And  she  was  as  the  sun  to  me; 
She  looked  on  me,  and  her  dark  eyes, 
To  me  were  like  the  moonlit  skies. 

The  Cracovian  song  is  more  gay,  and  some- 
times very  witty.  It  is  commonly  short,  and 
presents  only  one  idea.  The  people  improvise, 
dancing  at  the  same  time.  It  is  a  duty  of  a  young 
countryman  to  address  his  mistress  in  the  dance 
with  a  song.  The  following  is  an  example  : — 

The  branch  is  green,  but  the  bird  is  not  there, 
My  heart  is  young,  but  mirth  is  away, 
The  bird  rests  not  on  the  branch  alone, 
And  how  without  thee  can  my  spirit  be  gay. 

These  songs  perish  soon  after  their  birth,  to- 
gether with  the  names  of  their  authors.  Another 

2* 


IS 

kind  of  those  songs  is  called  Mazurka,  but  this 
only  belongs  to  the  Cracovians.  They  are  often 
patriotic.  They  sang  Kosciusko,  and  now  they 
sing  in  secret  the  heroes  of  our  last  revolution. 
Almost  every  peasant  on  the  bank  of  the  Vistula 
and  Dnieper,  is  himself  a  poet  and  a  singer. 
Some  of  these  compositions  are  consecrated  to 
the  country  festivities,  the  harvests,  weddings, 
etc.  It  is  unnecessary  to  cite  them  more.  They 
have  scarcely  poetic  merit ;  but  sung  in  the  fields, 
amid  their  labours  and  amusements,  on  the  Carpa- 
thian mountains,  mingled  with  the  great  poetry 
of  nature,  and  echoed  by  the  birds  and  streams, 
they  fill  our  hearts  with  a  truer  poetical  enthusi- 
asm than  books  themselves. 

Such  was  the  state  of  poetry  in  Poland  when 
Mickiewicz  arose.  He  stands  forth  a  single  star 
on  the  mental  chaos  of  thoughts  and  sentiments — 
his  materials  were  the  remembrances  of  our  an- 
cient glory — the  bones  of  our  heroes  cried  to  him 
for  a  song.  Mickiewicz  had  been  nourished  by 
the  German,  English,  and  Italian  literature,  and 
by  the  Roman  and  Greek  master-pieces ;  thus, 
joined  to  his  great  knowledge  and  his  natural 
genius,  he  struck  out  for  himself  a  brilliant  path 
in  the  field  of  literature.  His  poem,  Ancestors, 
has  produced  great  effect.  It  seems  as  if  he  had 


19 

created  a  new  language,  the  language  of  the  soul. 
It  is  like  the  music  of  a  strange  instrument  that 
we  feel,  we  understand,  but  know  not  the  mystery 
of  playing.  This  poem  is  long  and  unfinished. 
He  paints  it  in  a  passionate  character  mad  of 
love.  He  seizes  upon  all  traits  of  character,  and 
surrounds  it  with  so  dark  and  mysterious  a 
drapery,  that  we  feel  sure  on  reading  it,  of  seeing 
a  vampyre  returning  from  the  grave  to  tell  his 
history.  He  gives  to  him  the  very  language  of 
the  grave,  the  songs  of  a  church-yard.  We  feel 
by  degrees  his  rage,  his  fear,  his  sorrow,  his 
pity,  and  the  poet  plays  upon  our  passions,  and 
tunes  them  to  his  will.  Even  this  unfinished 
work  made  an  epoch  in  our  literature. 

Mickiewicz  soon  after  his  first  work,  published 
the  sonnets  of  Crymee.  In  these  sparkle  all  the 
wealth  of  the  eastern  poetry.  His  love  sonnets 
are  written  in  the  style  of  Petrarch,  and  are  full 
of  sentiments.  Some  are  translated  from  him 
(Petrarch).  Another  oriental  poem  of  his,  Paris, 
abounds  in  beautiful  thoughts  and  expressions  ;  it 
is  difficult  to  find  richer  poetry  in  any  language. 
While  reading  it  we  follow  his  Paris,*  where 

*  Faris  signifies  a  brave  Arabian  warrior,  and  is  used 
in  the  Arabian  poetry  as  a  Knight  in  ours.  This  poem 
was  dedicated  to  Count  Rzewuski,  who  in  travelling1 


20 

neither  the  green  haired  palms,  nor  the  white 
breasted  tents  shade  his  brow,  where  the  skies 
are  his  only  canopy,  where  the  stars  only  move 
and  the  rocks  only  rest."  We  feel  with  him  all 
the  delight  of  the  desert  life  when  he  says — 

And  my  Arab  steed  was  black, 

As  the  tempest  laden  cloud, 

And  I  gave  to  the  winds  his  plume-like  mane, 

And  his  feet  with  lightning  glared. 

And  no  one  followed  me 

From  the  earth  or  azure  skies. 

I  looked  on  the  heaven  above, 

And  the  stars  with  their  golden  eyes, 

All  gleamed  on  me  from  their  paradise. 

The  most  considerable  work  of  Mickiewicz 
is  Wallerod.  The  subject  is  taken  from  the  an- 
cient history  of  the  wars  between  the  Litwanians 
and  the  Knights  of  the  Cross.  The  hero  is  a 

through  Arabia,  distinguished  himself  in  the  Bedouin 
wars,  and  has  obtained  from  them  the  title  of  Emir.  He 
returned  to  Poland,  dressed  in  the  Arabian  costume,  and 
introduced  their  customs  into  his  house.  In  the  revo- 
lution he  was  one  of  the  leaders  of  the  Podolian  insur- 
rection. After  the  battle  of  Daszow  his  fate  was  unknown. 
This  extravagant  man,  whose  life  was  so  poetical,  wrote 
some  pieces  of  the  most  brilliant  poetry;  however  they 
were  never  published,  and  are  but  little  known. 


21 

Litwanian,  a  traitor,  who  served  in  the  army  of 
the  Crusaders  for  the  purpose  of  betraying  it. 
This  is  written  in  an  allegorical,  romantic  and 
patriotic  style,  and  contains  many  great  ideas  and 
glorious  remembrances.  It  had  so  great  an  effect 
on  our  youth,  that  it  may  be  counted  among  the 
principal  causes  of  our  revolution.  The  Russians, 
not  understanding  its  allegorical  sense,  permitted 
it  to  be  published.  It  is  patriotic  only  by  passages. 
That  which  I  select  is  the  song  of  a  Litwanian 
bard,  "  If  I  could  stir  up  the  enthusiasm  in  the 
breast  of  my  countrymen,  if  I  could  reallume  the 
pale  features  of  the  dead,  if  I  could  speak  burning 
words  to  the  hearts  of  my  brothers,  perhaps  they 
would  live  for  a  moment  as  sublimely  as  their 
ancestors  lived  always.'* 

The  last  work  of  Mickiewicz  is  the  continuation 
of  his  former  work,  Ancestors.  But  although 
there  is  indignation  and  enthusiasm  expressed, 
we  see  in  that  more  of  reason  than  of  flowers, 
more  of  the  philosopher  than  the  poet.  How- 
ever, it  is  filled  with  high  wrought  pictures  of 
Russian  tyranny,  painted  in  the  most  vivid  colours, 
and  it  will  remain  a  fearful  monument  of  the  per- 
secutions of  our  country.  Others  may  excite  Eu- 
rope against  the  tyranny  of  Nicholas.  But  he 
says  in  his  preface,  "  I  write  not  to  excite  com- 


22 

passion  or  sympathy  for  my  country  ;  we  can  say 
to  other  countries  of  Europe  as  Christ  has  said, 
'  Daughters  of  Jerusalem,  weep  not  for  me,  but 
weep  for  yourselves  and  your  children.'  " 

Such  was  and  such  is  our  romantic  and  patriotic 
poetry.  Our  dramatic  is  yet  in  a  low  state.  An- 
ciently, strange  and  rude  dramas  were  formed 
from  the  scriptures,  when  Christian  virtues  were 
personified,  and  angels,  devils  and  saints,  appear- 
ed together.  A  taste  for  these  plays  continued 
till  the  time  of  Kochanowski.  If  he  had,  (as 
Mickiewicz  well  observes,)  lighted  these  dramas 
with  his  genius,  they  might  now  have  been  like 
the  Spanish  Sacramentalas ;  but  unhappily  he 
despised  the  taste  of  ignorant  people,  and  they  have 
passed  away  with  the  dark  ages.  On  the  time  of 
the  regeneration  of  letters,  the  want  of  a  national 
theatre  was  felt,  but  unhappily  it  was  an  age  of 
imitation.  We  had  many  comedies  but  no  trage- 
dies. In  the  former,  Zablocki  excelled,  and  in 
the  latter,  Felinski's  Barbara  was  considered  the 
first.  It  is  a  large  historic  gallery  well  painted,  but 
it  could  not  be  called  a  tragedy.  Jt  has  no  tragical 
scenes,  nor  tragical  sentiments.  For  Felinski  and 
other  writers,  before  Mickiewicz,  worshipped 
to  idolatry  the  rules  of  the  French  theatre.* 

*  The  three  rules  of  the  French  theatre  were : — First, 
Unity  of  time — by  which  all  action  was  to  continue  but 


23 

Their  three  unities  was  the  law  that  governed 
all  our  theatrical  writers.  But  now  we  hope 
more  from  our  tragedy ;  Korzenioivski,  a  living 
author,  removed  all  these  prejudices,  took 
Shakspeare  for  his  model,  and  commenced  a 
new  era  in  the  Polish  tragedy.  It  is  much 
to  be  regretted  that  the  Russian  despotism  has 
permitted  only  a  few  of  his  pieces  to  be  pub- 
lished. His  first  tragedy,  (the  title  Angelique,)  al- 
though founded  only  on  domestic  life,  abounds  in 
tragical  positions  and  sentiments,  and  we  readily 
perceive  in  it  the  embryo  of  a  superior  genius, 
that  was  to  awaken  our  sleeping  Melpomena. 
This  was  the  first  work  of  Korzeniowski.  His 
other  tragedies  have  more  merit,  they  are  how- 
ever mostly  in  manuscript.  But  we  will  not 
speak  of  those  things  which  exist  only  in  the  fu- 
ture and  in  hope;  we  will  return  again  to  the 
romantic  poetry. 

Enough  has  already  been  said  of  the  poetry  of 
Mickiewicz.  It  is  in  conformity  to  the  modern 
romantic  taste,  joined  to  the  most  elevated  senti- 
ments of  sorrow  and  patriotism.  Indeed,  these 
now  become  the  nationality  of  our  poetry,  and 
all  our  authors  are  distinguished  by  the  same 

one  day  ;  Second,  The  action  must  be  confined  in  one 
tplace,  and  Third,  The  unity  of  interest.  These  were 
'ridiculous,  and  destroyed  all  appearance  of  possibility. 


24 

characteristics,  although  all  their  works  are  modu- 
lated by  their  peculiar  genius.  Malczewski  may 
be  counted  among  the  most  distinguished  of  them. 
In  his  poem,  Maria,  we  find  much  energy  of  ex- 
pression, and  fine  pictures  of  old  Polish  manners 
and  characters,  and  they  are  such  fine  descriptions 
of  our  romantic  Ukraine,  that  they  rival  the 
master-pieces  of  Mickiewicz.  In  his  description 
of  Mary,  he  says — 

She  is  young1,  but  the  winds  of  earthly  love, 
Have  blown  o'er  her  spirit  like  autumn's  breath, 
When  it  withers  the  flowers  of  the  sunny  grove  ; 
And  her  warmest  hopes  are  cold  in  death  ; 
And  we  see  no  more  in  her  beaming  eye, 
The  war  of  thought — and  the  light  that  broke 
From  the  lamp  of  love,  that  burned  so  high, 
Is  quenched,  and  her  brow  is  dark  with  its  smoke. 

Or  this  description  of  ancient  manners  : — 

The  old  time  returned  and  the  banquet  was  gay, 
With  the  feast  and  the  song,  the  night  passed  away  ; 
The  tables  were  heavy  with  silver  and  gold, 
And  the  jest  of  the  tale  was  merrily  told, 
And  the  Hungary  wine  at  the  festal  board, 
Flowed  as  free  as  the  blood  in  the  heart  of  the  lord ; 
The  shade  of  his  ancestors  graced  the  wall, 
And  coldly  smiled  on  the  festive  hall. 

It  is  much  to  be  regretted  that  Malczewski, 


25 

who  wrote  only  for  amusement,  and  applied  him- 
self little  to  literature,  has  published  but  this  work. 
This  alone,  however,  will  be  an  eternal  monument 
to  his  glory. 

We  have  now  a  constellation  of  young  poets, 
cotemporary  with  Mickiewicz,  and  nourished  by 
the  honey  of  his  songs,  but  whose  names  are  not 
yet  enrolled  in  the  history  of  our  literature.  It 
may  be  well  to  mention  some  of  them. 

Zalewski,  an  Ukraine  poet,  has  seized  on  all 
the  popular  songs  and  created  them  anew.  Fresh 
as  the  herbs  of  Ukraine,  and  wild  as  the  rushing 
of  Dnieper.  He  has  given  but  few  of  his  works 
to  the  public,  but  these  are  sparkling  with  genius. 
Goszczynski,  who  was  one  of  the  first  to  com- 
mence our  revolution,  possessed  with  his  patriotic 
spirit,  a  high  degree  of  poetic  merit.  His  poem, 
The  Castle  of  Kaniow,  and  his  patriotic  songs, 
elevate  him  to  the  highest  degree. 

There  are  yet  many  young  poets  of  great  pro- 
mise, but  the  limits  of  this  short  essay  forbid  my 
mentioning  them. 

Thus,  our  country  can  never  perish.  So  much 
glory  hangs  around  her  name ;  such  a  spirit  of 
sacrifice  exists  within  her ;  her  language  enriched 
with  poetry  and  songs — these  all  tell  us  she  will 
yet  exist.  And  we  can  but  hope,  that  these  songs 
3 


26 

will  assist  in  awaking,  at  a  future  day,  the  sound 
of  her  revenge  and  salvation.    Be  it  so. 

I  close  the  essay,  by  citing  other  fragments  of 
our  poetry. 

THE  PRIMROSE. 

Jin  imitation  of  Mtckiewicz. 

Scarcely  its  heavenly  song, 
The  lark  had  sung  to  lovers, 
When  from  its  golden  covers, 

The  first  sweet  primrose  sprung. 

Too  early  my  flower,  said  I, 

The  wind  of  the  north  yet  blows, 
The  hills  are  white  with  snows, 

And  the  groves  are  not  grown  dry. 

Under  the  parent  stem, 

Cover  their  petals  bright, 

Before  the  dew  of  night, 
To  pearl  has  changed  them. 

Our  days,  said  the  lovely  flower, 
Are  like  the  insects  bright, 
Our  birth  is  at  morning  light, 

And  our  death  at  mid-day  hour. 

And  if  you  would  deck  your  bowers, 
Or  send  to  her  your  love, 


27 

A  gift  your  faith  to  prove, 
Oh  !  gather  the  lovely  flowers. 


A  SONG  OF  PODOLI A. 

If  like  the  eagle  I  could  fly, 
Ah  !  I  would  breathe  PodohVs  air, 
And  rest  again  beneath  her  sky, 
Where  all  my  thoughts  and  wishes  are. 

That  is  the  land  that  first  I  loved 
The  land  where  passed  my  earliest  years, 
The  land  that  holds  my  fathers'  dust- 
That  saw  my  earliest  smiles  and  tears. 

There  like  some  disembodied  shade, 
I'd  wander  o'er  the  bright  abode, 
Where  all  my  buried  hopes  are  laid,— 
Oh  !  change  me  to  an  eagle,  God  ! 

Oh  !  could  I  be  a  star,  whose  light 
Illumes  Podolia's  tower  and  grove, 
To  gaze  and  linger  through  the  night, 
Upon  the  face  of  her  I  love. 

Or  from  silvery  cloud  to  send, 
Around  her  eyelids,  visions  bright 
As  those  soft  rays,  the  evening  stars 
Send  on  the  lakes  in  summer's  night. 


28 

And  then  to  watch  with  unseen  eyes, 
Her  steps  through  day — e'en  from  afar, 
Until  enchanted  with  the  sight ; 
Change  me,  Oh  !  God,  into  a  star ! 

It  is  in  vain — the  bursting  soul, 
Why  dream  it ;  weep  bitterly, 
O  my  beloved,  for  his  fate — 
The  exile  who  was  dear  to  thee. 

We  are  accursed.    The  eagles  fly, 
The  glittering  stars  of  night  roll  on, 
But  we  are  chained.    Thou  art  afar  ; 
Tears  are  around  me — hope  is  gone. 


A  GIRL. 

Song  from  Korsdk. 

Her  lips  are  always  smiling, 
And  ever  bright  her  eyes, 
Enchanting  and  beguiling, 
As  the  moon  in  the  skies  ; 
How  beautiful  the  girl ! 

When  she  speaks  to  a  gentle  youth, 
Who  to  her  deep  love  bears, 
By  a  smile  she  his  grief  can  soothe, 
Or  she  mingles  with  his  tears  ; 
How  tender  is  the  girl ! 


29 

When  once  again  they  meet, 
And  passionately  kiss, 
Their  pleasure  is  so  great, 
So  tender  their  embrace — 
How  passionate  the  girl ! 

And  then  the  wing  of  change, 
Of  joy  and  love ;  the  death 
Sweeps  o'er  their  gentle  thoughts, 
And  blasts  them  with  its  breath  ; 
Where  is  the  constant  girl  ? 

She  again  in  a  week  or  day, 
For  another  one  will  take 
The  heart  she  gave  the  first, 
And  leave  the  first  to  break ; 
How  changeable  the  girl ! 

She  gave  her  heart  to  the  first. 
And  gave  her  hand  to  another  ; 
And  she  has  wed  another, 
And,  alas  !  she  killed  the  first ; 
How  cursed  the  girl ! 


SONG. 

From  the  Mickicwicz's  poem,  Ancestors, 

She  is  fair  as  an  angel  of  light, 
The  fairest  of  all.    And  her  eye, 
3* 


30 

Oh  !  its  beams  are  as  heavenly  bright, 
As  the  sun  in  the  azure  sky. 

And  her  kiss  !  'tis  the  nectar  of  heaven, 
The  union  of  flame  with  flame  ; 

'Tis  the  voices  of  two  lutes, 

That  one  harmony  weds  the  same. 


Imitation  of  a  song  from  the  poem,  Wallenrod. 

Wilia,  mother  of  our  streams, 
Has  golden  face  and  surface  blue, 
But  Litwa,  that  thy  valley  drains, 
Has  fairer  face  and  heart  more  true. 

Through  Kowno's*  vale  the  Wilia  flows, 
'Midst  daffodils  and  tulips  rare, 
But  daffodil  nor  tulip  blows 
As  at  thy  feet,  oh !  maiden  fair. 

The  Wilia  cares  for  shrubs  nor  flow'rs, 
But  seeks  her  love  the  Niemen  deep, 
So  Litwa's  fair  scorns  Litwa's  youth, 
And  for  a  stranger  love  will  weep. 

*  Niemen  and  Wilia>  are  two  rivers  in  Litwanie, 
which  in  Poland  is  called  Litwa.  Koumo  is  a  city,  in 
whose  vicinity  is  the  beautiful  valley,  one  of  the  hand- 
somest in  Poland. 


31 

But  see  !  the  Niemen's  chilling1  arms, 
Have  Wilia  clasped  and  turned  away, 
O'er  craggy  rocks  and  desert  plains, 
And  both  must  perish  in  the  sea. 

And  then,  far  from  thy  native  plain, 
Oh  !  Litwa's  maiden,  wilt  thou  g-o, 
Condemned  to  feel  the  keenest  pain, 
To  die  in  solitary  wo  ? 

But  vain  to  bind  the  stream  or  soul, 
The  Wilia  flows,  the  maid  loves  on, 
T*  oblivion  Wilia's  currents  roll, 
The  girl  in  silence  weeps  alone. 


HISTORICAL  SKETCH  OP  EDUCATION 
IN  POLAND. 


IN  tracing  the  progress  of  education  in  our 
country,  I  shall  not  speak  of  those  feeble  lights 
which  glimmered  in  the  dark  ages.  Those  were 
not  the  times  for  improvement  in  education  in 
any  part  of  Europe,  and  least  of  all,  in  Poland. 
To  mount  the  horse,  conch  the  lance,  and  shine 
at  the  tournament,  constituted  the  whole  education 
of  a  Polish  gentleman.  Learning  shone  out  here 
and  there  among  the  monks,  but  this  was  very 
rare,  and  very  imperfect.  We  had,  however,  in 
the  twelfth  century,  our  historian,  Kadtubek,  and 
his  history,  filled  with  fables,  miracles  and  preju- 
dices, bears  the  characteristics  of  his  age.  It  was 
not  until  the  reign  of  the  virtuous  and  gentle 
Queen  Hedwige,  that  the  Academy  was  founded 
at  Cracovie,  which  was  but  the  cradle  of  science. 

At  the  commencement  of  the  sixteenth  century, 
we  possessed  Copernicus.  Copernicus,  who 
changed  the  face  of  the  physical  universe,  and 
wrested  from  nature  her  mysteries.  The  dispute 


33 

continues  to  this  day,  whether  Copernicus  was  a 
Polander  or  a  Prussian;  the  learned  Sniadecki 
has  proved  the  former.*  This  age,  the  age  of  the 
reformation,  introduced  among  us,  theological  dis- 
putes on  the  subject  of  religious  tolerance.  Under 
the  reign  of  Sigismonds,  the  dissemination  of  all 
opinions  was  permitted.  It  was  at  that  period 
that  Poland  ranked  among  the  most  enlighten- 
ed countries  of  Europe  ;  it  was  at  that  time  that 
Kochanowski  gathered  the  first  flowers  of  Polish 
poetry,  and  scattered  them  upon  the  tomb  of  his 
beloved  daughter ;  it  was  at  that  period  that  Ozre- 
chowski  acclaimed  with  the  eloquence  of  Demos- 
thenes against  the  despotism  of  Rome ;  it  was  at 
that  period  that  Modrzejowski  wrote  a  work  on 
the  republic — a  work  truly  splendid  for  its  time. 

That  was  an  age  the  most  splendid  to  the  poli- 
tics and  literature  of  Poland.  Our  deputies,  who 
went  to  Paris  to  Henri  de  Valois,  from  the  Polish 
crown,  enchanted  France  with  their  learning. 
But  a  change  soon  took  place.  King  Stephen 
Batory,  who  performed  a  great  service  to  know- 
ledge by  founding  the  Academy  of  Wilnor,  most 
unfortunately  introduced  the  order  of  the  Jesuits, 
and  education  was  soon  in  the  hands  of  these 

*  In  his  dissertation  on  Copernicus,  in  Polish,  French 
and  German. 


34 

monks.  Under  Sigismond  III.,  they  possessed 
great  power,  controlled  the  mind  of  that  monarch, 
directed  public  instruction,  and  consequently  the 
spirit  of  the  nation.  Vain  disputes  about  words, 
hatred  between  Catholics  and  Lutherans,  and  on 
the  fair  fields  of  poetry,  the  enfeebling  influence 
of  excessive  penegyric.  These  were  the  effects 
of  the  education  of  the  Jesuits. 

Misfortunes  and  wars,  both  foreign  and  domes- 
tic, under  the  laws  of  Sigismond  and  other  kings, 
were  not  more  favourable  to  civilization.  Some 
luminaries,  however,  are  to  be  observed  in  those 
ages.  We  look  upon  some  pieces  of  poetry,  but 
they  bear  the  marks  of  bad  taste.  In  fact,  the 
whole  style  of  writing,  and  the  system  of  study, 
were  in  every  respect  corrupt.  Authors  wrote 
but  to  panegyrize,  and  nothing  was  taught  in  the 
schools  but  Latin,  theology,  and  a  little  scholastic 
philosophy.  At  length,  after  so  many  wars, 
Poland  found  herself  at  peace  at  the  beginning  of 
the  eighteenth  century ;  but  she  was  not  in  pos- 
session of  such  tranquillity  as  was  necessary,  like 
a  balsam,  to  heal  the  wounds  she  had  received. 
Poland  was  crushed  and  destroyed  ;  and  education 
was  in  a  similar  condition.  But  jn  the  middle  of 
this  century,  Komarski,  a  monk,  conceived  the 
noble  project  of  saving  the  country  by  raising  the 
national  spirit.  With  this  object  he  formed  a  new 


35 

system  of  education  in  a  college  which  he  founded 
at  Warsaw.  This  was,  indeed,  an  entirely  aris- 
tocratic institution  :  for  only  nobles  were  allowed 
admission ;  but  it  at  least  revived  the  spirit  of 
that  part  of  the  nation  who  alone  had  the  right  to 
control,  and  from  that  time  may  be  dated  the  re- 
formation of  education  and  opinions. 

In  the  time  of  Komarski,  there  also  existed  in 
Poland,  a  family  who  were  the  protectors  of 
genius,  and  whose  mansion  was  the  cradle  of 
good  taste  :  the  family  of  Prince  Czartoryski. 
They  conferred  many  other  favours  upon  the 
country,  and  were  the  first  to  cherish  learning. 
During  the  period  of  our  political  death,  in  that 
house  still  gleamed,  as  from  a  funeral  lamp,  a 
feeble  lamp  of  national  existence.  There  were 
collected  our  ancient  recollections,  there  was  our 
literature  ;  there  were  assembled  all  the  enlighten- 
ed men,  in  whose  hearts  alone,  the  country  lived. 

But  it  was  not  until  the  year  1773,  after  the 
Jesuitic  order  had  subsided,  that  education  in 
Poland  assumed  a  form  truly  public  and  national. 
All  the  property  of  the  Jesuits  had  been  placed 
by  the  Diet  under  the  direction  of  a  committee  of 
education,  which  was  composed  of  the  most 
learned  men  in  the  nation.  A  new  system  of 
education  was  formed,  under  which  instruction 
was  allowed  to  all,  being  supported  by  the  public 


36 

funds,  derived  from  the  confiscated  estates  of  the 
Jesuits.  An  elementary  society  was  formed,  which 
offered  prizes  for  works  on  instruction  for  the 
schools. 

At  this  period,  which  was  the  era  of  the  restora- 
tion of  learning,  when  everything  contributed  to 
the  elevation  of  the  national  spirit,  we  had  valuable 
authors.  Naruszewicz,  in  tracing  our  history,  in 
making  us  recall  the  past,  pointed  out  the  path  to 
an  equally  glorious  future.  Staszic  employed  his 
pen  on  subjects  of  the  greatest  wisdom  and  impor- 
tance ;  Krasicki,  by  his  satires  and  satirical  ro- 
mances, corrected  many  of  our  faults. 

The  effects  of  the  new  system  of  education  were 
displayed  in  the  Diet  of  1788,  known  as  the  con- 
stituent Diet.  The  representatives,  trained  under 
it,  and  free  from  ancient  prejudices,  proclaimed 
new  opinions  in  the  council.  This  Diet  produced 
the  celebrated  constitution  of  the  third  of  May, 
which,  (alas  !  too  soon,)  proved  the  scourge  of  our 
happiness  and  liberty. 

Before  the  Diet  we  had  education,  though  on  an 
aristocratic  plan.  The  Committee  who  directed 
it,  it  is  true,  were  unable  to  offer  its  benefits  to  the 
peasantry,  and  that  part  of  the  nation  was  still 
ignorant  and  enslaved,  but  the  constitution  of  the 
third  of  May  meliorated  their  condition  ;  and,  in 
time,  without  doubt,  would  have  given  them  educa- 


37 

tion ;  for  circumstances  were  in  a  favorable  train  ; 
education,  civilization,  and  all  other  improvements, 
being  on  the  advance.  By  the  present  we  might 
have  been  equal  to  the  most  learned  and  civilized 
nations.  Our  circumstances  do  not  now  permit 
the  indulgence  of  such  a  hope. 

Civilization  and  learning  being  in  such  a  condi- 
tion, in  1792,  under  the  protection  of  the  consti- 
tution, many  were  elevated  to  the  highest  pitch. 
But  our  political  tempests  did  not  permit  the  legis- 
lators of  our  Diet  to  see  the  fruits  of  their  labors, 
or  even  allow  the  plants  they  had  cherished,  to  at- 
tain their  full  growth.  We  were  once  more  com- 
pelled to  exchange  the  pen  for  the  sword,  and  en- 
gage  in  a  terrible  and  desperate  war ;  for  now,  with 
heroic  feelings  and  spirit,  our  nation  had  become 
incapable  of  suffering  longer  under  the  policy  and 
treachery  of  Catherine.  The  country  saw  at  her 
head  a  hero  who,  with  laurels  gathered  in  Ameri- 
ca, with  sentiments  of  liberty  acquired  in  another 
world,  desiring  to  see  the  same  liberty  on  his  na- 
tive soil.  All  took  arms :  but  the  hour  of  death 
had  already  struck  for  our  unfortunate  country  ; 
nor  could  the  genius  of  Kosciusko,  or  the  arms  of 
his  brave  countrymen  avail  to  save  her ;  and  the 
death  of  liberty  must  ever  and  inevitably  produce 
the  death  of  learning.* 

•After  the  close  of  the  revolution,  our  libraries  and 
4 


38 


It  is  an  incontestible  fact,  most  abundantly 
proved,  that  despotism  cannot  be  the  friend  of 
science,  and  especially  in  a  nation  where  educa- 
tion bears  the  mark  of  nationality.  After  freedom 
had  departed  from  our  country,  the  plan  of  educa- 
tion was  overthrown.  The  University  of  Vilna, 
owes  its  existence  to  the  noble  director,  Poczobut, 
and  we  are  under  great  obligations  to  that  for  our 
literary  existence.  Then  the  brothers,  Sniadecki, 
enlightened  us  with  their  valuable  philosophical 
works;  thence,  afterwards,  proceeded  the  poet, 
Mickicevicz,  and  those  youths  who  most  distin- 
guished themselves  in  learning  and  in  arms. 

Thus,  in  the  provinces  belonging  to  Russia,  the 
ancient  system  of  education  still  existed,  but  in 
those  under  Austrian  domination  public  instruction 
was  exhibited,  and  even  in  our  native  language. 
The  Austrians  treated  us  with  greater  cunning  and 

literary  institutions  were  at  the  mercy  of  barbarous 
savages.  There  was  a  large  and  rich  library  in  Warsaw; 
the  gift  of  the  family  of  Zaluski  to  the  public,  which 
was  known  by  its  name.  It  was  ravaged  almost  like  that 
of  Alexandria.  The  Cossacks,  who  carried  the  books  on 
their  horses  to  Petersburgh,  lighted  their  pipes  with  the 
leaves,  and  about  the  middle  of  their  journey,  being 
ordered  to  put  their  spoil  in  their  knapsacks,  they  cut 
the  largest  books  in  two,  to  reduce  them  to  the  common 


39 

severity  than  any  other  nation.  They  alone  sought 
to  deprive  us,  by  degrees,  of  our  nationality  ;  to 
corrupt  our  minds  and  our  hearts  :  in  a  word,  to 
take  away  our  memory,  to  rob  us  of  all  the  past, 
and  to  root  out  all  that  still  vivified  the  soul  of  our 
unfortunate  and  long  illustrious  nation.  It  was 
thus,  that  education,  in  Austria,  became  completely 
paralyzed,  and  finally  died. 

Our  enlightened  and  patriotic  countrymen  had 
ever  wished  to  cherish  our  education  and  our  lan- 
guage :  and  that  time,  while  some  fought  under  the 
banner  of  Napoleon,  with  the  hope  of  reviving  the 
country,  others,  in  the  bosom  of  their  native  land, 
cultivated  its  language  and  literature,  and  took  care 
that  our  memory,  and  our  history  should  not  perish. 
In  1802,  a  society  was  formed  in  Warsaw  under 
the  name  of  "  The  Society  of  the  Friends  of  Let- 
ters." The  learned  Czacki  was  one  of  the  first 
movers  of  that  Association,  who  devoted  his  pen, 
his  fortune  and  his  labors  to  restore  public  educa- 
tion, with  Ignatius,  and  Stanislas  Potocki ;  those 
brave  champions  in  the  famous  Diet  of  1778, 
together  with  Dmochowski,  the  translator  of  Ho- 
mer's Iliad. 

This  society,  endowed  with  privileges  by  Prus- 
sia, under  the  pretext  of  science,   animated  the 
feelings  of  the  nation.     There  Niemcewicz  wrote 
his  historical  song;*  there  Brodzinski  read  his 
*  See  the  "Essay  on  Poetry." 


40 

literary  compositions,  which  always  bore  the 
marks  of  patriotism. 

Czacki  also  founded  the  Lyceum  of  Kremienice, 
in  Vollynia,  and  endowed  it  with  a  rich  library, 
where  the  studies  are  formed  on  his  plan.  He 
was  tutor  of  this  institution,  which  he  called  his 
child.  It  became  the  cradle  of  many  young 
geniuses,  and  young  patriots. 

After  the  fall  of  Napoleon,  the  Emperor  Alexan- 
der, in  opposing  the  constitution  to  that  small  por- 
tion of  our  country  which  he  named  the  Kingdom 
of  Poland,  pretended  to  allow  it  the  liberty  of  the 
press.  But  this  was  only  a  flattering  promise,  for 
when,  in  the  year  1818,  a  liberal  and  patriotic 
journalist  was  imprisoned,  (the  editor  of  "  The 
White  Eagle,")  that  journal  was  immediately  sup- 
pressed by  the  unworthy  brother  of  Alexander, 
the  cruel  Prince  Constantine.  Alexander  always 
endeavoured  to  conceal  his  hypocritical  designs 
with  the  mask  of  humanity.  He  elevated  education 
with  one  hand,  and  destroyed  it  with  the  other. 
He  founded  the  University  of  Warsaw  in  1818, 
which  promised  much  at  its  commencement:  to 
take  the  lead  of  education  in  Poland,  and  to 
enlighten  all  classes  of  people,  by  establishing,  in 
villages,  sabbath  schools  and  other  useful  institu- 
tions. But  these  projects  were  never  realized, 
and  the  Government  was  obliged  to  arrest  its  own 


41 

work,  for  the  Emperor  could  not  allow  those  men 
to  become  citizens  whom  he  wanted  as  slaves. 
And  his  own  plan  of  education  would  have  given 
them  a  liberal  and  philosophical  turn. 

Our  education  was  not  immediately  applicable 
to  any  condition  in  society ;  it  did  not  exactly  form 
men  merchants,  agriculturists  or  mechanics,  it 
rather  gave  them  a  philosophical  and  reflecting 
character,  and  thus  raised  their  minds  to  a  certain 
ideal  point.  That  point  they  could  not  realize,  for 
they  saw  only  chains  behind  and  before  them ;  but, 
yet  towards  it  they  directed  their  desires  and  aimed 
all  their  exertions.  A  man  with  such  feelings, 
must  think,  and  will  know  how  to  think:  but  he 
cannot  carry  his  thoughts  into  the  real  world. 
That  would  be  Siberia  to  him  and  to  his  feelings. 
Their  world  was,  therefore,  in  their  minds,  in  the 
hope  of  the  future.  Thus  the  very  plan  of  our 
education  proved  one  of  the  causes  of  our  revolu- 
tion ;  a  revolution  which  each  of  our  youth  had 
long  carried  in  his  thought  and  in  his  bosom. 

Alexander  looked  upon  all  things  with  an  air  of 
indifference,  until  the  death  of  Kosciusko.  Prussia 
had  exposed  the  revolutionary  tendency  of  the  Ger- 
man schools,  and  he  feared  that  similar  influences 
might  appear  in  those  of  Poland.  The  University 
of  Vilna  became  the  principal  object  of  observation 

to  his  minister  Nawosiltzow  :  a  cruel  instrument 

4* 


42 

in  the  hands  of  a  dark  despot  of  the  North.  In 
that  University  a  literary  association  was  formed 
among  the  students,  which  had  a  secret  object, 
to  maintain  the  national  spirit.  The  president, 
Thomas  Zan,  excited  uneasiness  with  the  govern- 
ment, by  his  bold  and  mysterious  character.  The 
society,  which  bore  the  name  of  Philarets,  was 
not  of  long  continuance,  but  was  succeeded  by 
another,  called  the  Philomathes.  A  young  student 
named  Plater,  only  twelve  years  of  age,  wrote  on 
the  gates  of  the  University,  "  Long  live  the  Con- 
stitution !  Death  to  the  Tyrants !"  which  gave 
offence  to  Nowosiltzow,  and  the  students  became 
the  object  of  a  cruel  persecution,  several  of  them- 
were  nearly  killed  by  beating ;  others,  though 
mere  children,  were  torn  from  the  arms  of  their 
families  and  put  in  chains,  or  sent  off  to  be  trained 
as  Russian  soldiers.  Although  Zan  wished  to 
sacrifice  himself  for  his  comrades,  he  was  trans- 
ported with  numbers  of  them  to  Siberia  :  more 
than  one  hundred  of  the  young  students,  some  chil- 
dren of  the  first  families,  were  thus  persecuted  for 
a  few  liberal  thoughts. 

It  was  in  the  year  1823,  that  the  persecution  of 
the  schools  and  of  education  commenced.  The 
study  of  the  law  of  nature  and  of  nations  was  pro- 
hibited, a  barbarous  police  was  established  in  the 
institutions,  composed  of  old  Russian  soldiers,  of 
brutal  feelings  and  disgusting  habits,  by  whom,  for 


43 

a  word  about  liberty,  written  in  a  literary  disserta- 
tion, a  student  was  often  thrown  into  prison. 

But  the  spirit  of  the  people  was  in  a  state  of 
excitement.  Lelewell,  the  professor  of  history  in 
the  University  of  Wilna,  was  Jike  an  invisible 
and  supernatural  being  who  quickened  the  tendency 
to  revolution  in  every  young  bosom.  Mickiewicz* 
gave  it  a  poetic  direction.  He  wrote  an  allegori- 
cal poem,  unintelligible  to  the  Russians,  in  which 
he  led  the  fancy  of  his  countrymen,  back  to  the 
fair  regions  of  past,  and  made  comparisons  with 
the  present. 

All  things  conspired  to  cherish  the  spirit  of 
liberty,  especially  in  the  schools,  and  hence  it 
was,  that  when  seven  o'clock,  the  appointed  hour, 
struck  at  Warsaw,  on  the  memorable  29th  of 
November,  the  first  who  appeared  under  the  stand- 
ards were  the  students. 

Russia  has  established  schools  since  the  revolu- 
tion, in  which  are  taught  only  reading  and  writing, 
with  a  catechism  of  the  Emperor,  who,  acccord- 
ing  to  its  doctrines,  rules  on  earth  as  the  Almighty 
does  in  Heaven.  These  have  succeeded  to  the 
institutions  we  had  for  a  while  enjoyed  with 
various  publications,  in  which  was  displayed  the 
eloquence  of  liberty  ;  but  almost  in  the  twinkling 
of  an  eye,  revolution  and  liberty,  like  phantoms  of 
the  night,  like  castles  of  clouds,  have  disappeared 
and  are  seen  no  more. 

*  See  "The  Essay  on  Poetry." 


THE  POLISH  LOVERS, 


For  his  only  monument  shall  be  the  dry  wood  of  the 
gibbet;  his  only  glory  shall  be  the  tears  of  women  and  the 
long  conversations  of  his  countrymen. — -MICKIEWICZ. 

ON  the  beautiful  banks  of  the  Dniester,  in  Po- 
tlolia,  stand  the  ruins  of  an  ancient  castle.  The 
remains  of  its  grandeur  remind  us  of  former  days 
of  happiness  and  glory,  and  its  ruins  of  misfor- 
tunes, and  of  war.  Two  years  since  it  was  still 
inhabited,  but  it  stands  now,  a  lone  and  deserted 
monument.  The  dogs  howl  at  its  once  hospitable 
doors,  and  no  sound  echoes  through  its  desolate 
halls  but  the  scream  of  the  owl. 

One  morning  the  sun  rose  brightly,  enlightening 
once  more  the  old  mansion,  and  painting  with  the 
golden  colours  the  alleys  of  the  garden.  The 
birds  were  awake  on  the  trees,  praising,  in  a  low 
voice,  the  glory  of  their  Maker :  but  in  a  summer- 
house  sat  a  yet  gentler  and  lovelier  bird,  the  sweet 
Halina  of  the  castle.  Her  voice  harmonized  not 
with  the  merry  notes  of  the  birds  around  her,  it 
was  more  tender  and  sorrowful. 


45 
HALINA'S  SONG. 

To-morrow  shall  sparkle  the  glorious  star 
And  to-morrow  my  love  will  be  on  to  the  war, 
His  dark  eye  will  brighten  to  meet  with  the  foe, 
But  he  leaves  my  lone  heart  in  the  darkness  of  wo. 

And  to-morrow,  perhaps,  he  will  rest  in  the  grave, 
And  no  one  will  weep  o'er  the  tomb  of  the  brave; 
Oh !  this  sad  heart  shall  bleed  for  the  doom  of  my  love, 
But  never  from  the  grave  can  his  ashes  remove. 

Perchance  on  that  banner  the  last  gift  of  mine, 
His  last  sigh  shall  linger,  his  last  glance  shall  shine, 
When  he  sleeps  in  the  tomb  o'er  his  ashes  'twill  wave. 
A  relict  of  love,  on  the  tomb  of  the  brave. 

And  yet  he  will  perish,  and  perish  for  thee, 
Oh!  Poland!  my  mother,  thatthou  may'st  be  free, 
I  will  conquer  my  sorrows  ancl  think  but  of  thine; 
And  my  love  and  my  life  I  lay  on  thy  shrine. 

As  she  finished,  she  hung  her  guitar  on  a  rose- 
bush, saying :  "  Alas  !  my  songs  float  away  with- 
out an  echo,  his  sweet  voice  will  never  more  ac- 
company me."  She  heard  a  rustling  among  the 
leaves,  and  turning  quickly  round,  she  beheld  the 
figure  of  her  lover,  a  youth  dressed  in  the  uniform 
of  a  Polish  lancer. 

"To-morrow,"  said  he,  "I  go:  it  is  the  day 
appointed  for  our  insurrection.  Dearest,  we  shall 


46      . 

meet  no  more ;   but,   remember  your   Casimir, 
who  left  you,  only  for  his  country." 

"  Farewell,  my  beloved,"  said  Halina,  as  she 
gave  him  a  banner,  "  take  this,  and  fight  under  its 
shadow :  it  is  a  gift  to  Poland,  from  her  unhappy 
daughter." 

She  sighed  deeply,  but  she  wept  not.  Although 
she  sacrificed  to  her  country,  her  Casimir,  her 
ideal,  her  world,  she  wept  not — she  was  a  Pole. 

"  This  flag,"  replied  he,  "  the  work  of  thy 
gentle  fingers,  shall  be  my  avenging  angel  in  the 
day  of  battle.  And  when  I  return,  it  shall  be 
dyed  with  the  blood  of  the  Russians.  Oh !  I 
will  never  be  unworthy  of  the  gift." 

"  And  kt  it  be,  also,  your  guardian  angel,  for 
in  its  embroidery  are  enchained  many  drops  of 
my  soul,  many  tears.  They  will  guard  you  in 
the  hour  of  danger.  May  the  blood  of  the  enemy, 
not  thine,  dye  this  flag,  and,  at  thy  return,  I  will 
crown  thee  with  laurels.  But  if  thou  shouldst 
perish " 

The  words  died  upon  her  lips,  and  the  burning 
tears  rolled  down  her  angelic  face.  And  now,  she 
was  a  woman. 

Again  he  embraced  her,  and  binding  the  bless*- 
ed  flag  to  his  lance,  disappeared  like  a  vision. 
Halina  gazed  after  him,  till  the  faithful  flag,  only 


47 

visible,   seemed  waving  its  last   farewell  to  its 
sweet  mistress. 

II. 

Again  it  was  morning.  But  the  air  was  chilly 
and  dark  ;  clouds  overhung  the  old  mansion  like 
messengers  of  ill ;  rain  poured  heavily  down,  as  if 
even  the  heavens  were  weeping.  Halina  thought- 
ful and  weary,  was  again  in  the  summer-house, 
for,  what  was  storm  or  sunshine  to  her  without 
[ier  beloved  ?  And  so  calm  and  holy  an  air  per- 
vaded that  spot,  that  she  sought  it  daily.  The 
Dalsam  of  love  seemed  still  to  linger  in  the  air  she 
had  breathed  with  Casimir ;  the  trees  seemed  still 
to  echo  the  adieu  he  had  once  uttered  beneath 
their  shade.  In  the  half-year  that  had  elapsed  in 
his  absence,  all  had  changed  but  the  summer- 
house,  and  the  soul  that  dreamed  within.  Hope 
had  ceased  to  linger  in  Poland;  the  land  of 
iKosciusko  was  in  bondage.  The  revolution  pass- 
red  away  like  the  visions  of  a  young  dreaming 
soul. 

Again  Halina  wept  bitterly,  but  her  tears  were 
holy,  they  fell  on  the  altar  of  patriotism — she 
wept  for  her  native  country — she  was  a  Pole. 

And  yet  when  she  thought  of  one  brave  de- 
fender of  that  country,  and  of  his  uncertain  fate, 


48 
>• 

tears  of  passion  may  have  mingled  with  those  of 
patriotism — she  was  a  woman. 

At  this  moment  a  stranger  appeared  among  the 
trees.  Halina' s  heart,  the  watch  of  her  soul,  that 
seemed  to  tell  of  the  approaching  hour  of  happi- 
ness, beat  stronger  and  stronger  as  he  approached 
with  torn  garment  and  a  pilgrim's  staff  in  his 
hand. 

"  Oh,  my  Cassimer — they  have  not  enchained 
my  Cassimer — but  why  is  he  in  this  garb  ?" 

"  It  is  the  dress  of  a  Polish  pilgrim — not  so 
fair  as  the  warrior's,  but  not  the  less  honourable. 
Our  swords  are  broken,  but  our  hearts  are  not.  I 
have  come,  my  Halina,  to  behold  you  once  more 
— but,  alas  !  to  say,  again,  farewell.  I  will  depart 
on  a  pilgrimage,  rather  than  bow  my  proud  heart 
to  the  despot.  Yes,  we  will  wander  through  the 
world,  and  invoke  justice  and  vengeance.  Let 
the  nations  of  Europe  see  the  projects  of  tyrants, 
and  tremble  from  our  example.  Adieu !  yet, 
again  we  shall  meet  in  happier  days.  The  hope 
is  not  gone." 

But  echo  answered  in  a  sepulchral  tone, 
"  gone." 

"  And  will  you  leave  me  again  ?"  said  she. 

"  Oh  !  weep  not,  my  Halina,  that  I  go,  what 
will  be  our  life  without  freedom  ?" 

They  conversed  yet  awhile.     That  which  they 


49 

spoke  I  will  not  repeat ;  I  will  not  intrude  into 
that  sanctuary  of  the  heart — not  violate  that  mass 
of  the  feelings.  How  many  thoughts  they  had 
to  communicate  in  one  hour — that  hour  of  fare- 
well. 

Halina,  at  length,  dried  her  tears,  dispelled  the 
gloom  from  her  brow,  and  smiled  once  more  on 
her  lover.  With  those  lips  it  seemed  that  a 
heaven  opened  on  his  view,  something  unearthly 
glowed  in  her  eyes ;  he  forgot  the  world,  life,  and 
Poland  herself,  in  that  moment  of  ecstacy.  He 
took  her  in  his  arms,  kissed  her  till  his  soul  seem- 
ed stamped  in  that  last  embrace ;  he  kissed  her 
once  more,  and  once  more,  again  and  again. 

But  the  sound  of  farewell  struck  on  her  ear,  and 
he  was  gone  ! 

III. 

Our  patriots,  though  exiled,  still  nourished  the 
hope  of  delivering  their  native  country.  Their 
project  was  to  commence  a  war,  similar  to  the 
Guerrilas  in  Spain,  to  be  a  prelude  to  the  general 
insurrection,  and,  at  least,  to  preserve,  always, 
the  spirit  of  revolution  and  freedom  in  the  coun- 
try, and  to  show  the  nations  of  Europe,  that  the 
JPoles  could  never  be  wholly  enchained.  This 
was  called  the  war  of  the  Partisans.  Their  num- 
ber, however,  was  too  small,  though  their  sacri- 
5 


50 

fices  were  so  great.  They  were  obliged  to  hide 
themselves  in  the  woods,  or  to  fight  but  very 
small  detachments  of  the  Russian  troops. 

Nicholas,  to  defeat  their  projects,  and  deprive 
them  of  the  sympathy  of  Europe,  proclaimed  them 
as  robbers,  and  punished  them  as  such.  The 
gibbet  was,  and  is,  alas !  until  this  time,  the  re- 
compense of  the  Polish  patriots. 

A  small  detachment  of  Partisans  attacked  the 
city  of  Jozefaw,  in  the  palatinate  of  Lublin.  They 
knew  not  the  state  of  the  enemy,  till  the  light- 
nings of  the  firing  revealed  their  numbers.  They 
continued,  however,  slowly  to  retreat,  constantly 
and  fearlessly  firing.  The  Russians  fell  in  great 
numbers,  and  three  only  of  the  Partizans,  were 
missing.  They,  being  wounded,  fell  into  the 
hands  of  the  enemy. 

"  Ha  !  we  have  some  of  those  bird-catchers*  at 
last,"  said  they,  as  they  advanced  to  the  prostrate 
forms  of  those  who  had  fallen,  content  to  revenge 
the  death  of  so  many  of  their  companions  on 
these.  But  two  were  already  dead  of  their 
wounds,  and  in  the  third,  the  remains  of  organic 
life  still  lingered,  but  his  brow  was  pale  and 
spectre-like ;  no  soul  beamed  from  his  eye.  He 

*  Bird-catchers — the  name  given  by  the  Russians  to 
the  Polish  riflers. 


51 

seemed  like  the  magic-lantern,  with  no  light 
within. 

And  this  was  Casimir;  but,  alas  !  how 
changed ! 

"  And  what  shall  we  do  with  this  fellow  ?" 
said  the  Cossack ;  "  his  last  hour  seems  near,  and 
the  Poles  are  the  very  devils,  he  may  yet  re- 
vive and  murder  us." 

"  God  and  St.  Nicholas  preserve  us  from  it ;" 
cried  the  other,  and  addressing  the  captain  :  "  it  is 
)etter  to  kill  him  ;  one  blow  of  my  lance  will 
suffice." 

"  But  the  order  of  his  Majesty  is,  that  they 
shall  be  hung.  We  will  build  here  a  gibbet,  and 
show  the  people  of  Jozefaw  how  our  emperor  can 
.punish  the  rebels." 

IV. 

At  an  early  hour  the  next  morning,  the  multi- 
ude  had  assembled  to  witness  the  death  of  a  pa- 
riot.  But  they  came  not  from  curiosity,  not 
jven  willingly,  to  witness  that  horrible  spectacle, 
but  by  the  stern  orders  of  the  despot. 

No  tumult  was  heard,  a  solemn  and  mysterious 
silence  reigned  over  the  crowd.  All  thoughts 
iwelt  on  the  glorious  remembrances  of  two  years 
oefore ;  and  they  looked  at  the  hero  as  a  holy 


52 

offering,  a  sacrifice  on  the  altar  of  freedom.     Sad, 
horrible  offering  !  the  offering  of  blood  and  life  ! 

The  deed  was  done  ;  and  he,  so  young,  so 
proud,  so  beautiful,  had  died  the  ignominious 
death  of  the  gibbet.  Well  for  him,  that  with  his 
weakened  frame,  he  knew  not  of  his  dreadful 
death. 

Proud  spirit !  with  plumes  so  light ;  soarings  so 
high ;  and  thoughts  so  pure  !  Thou  wast  destined 
to  other  climes. 

The  crowd  was  yet  silently  struggling  to  hide 
their  emotions,  though  from  some,  sighs  were 
heard,  and  from  some,  tears,  burning  tears,  scorn- 
ing the  commands  of  the  despot,  rolled  free  and 
unsubdued  to  the  urn  of  national  sorrow  and  dis- 
tress. 

But  one  loud  voice  was  heard  from  the  crowd ; 
it  was  a  long,  piercing,  sorrowful  cry — a  woman's 
cry ;  from  whose  breast  it  may  be  imagined. 

On  the  evening  of  the  same  day,  the  body  of 
the  warrior  was  buried  under  his  gibbet.  The 
ministers  of  God  offered  no  prayers  for  his  soul ; 
no  sable  plumes  waved  over  his  corse ;  no  martial 
music ;  the  muffled  drum  and  the  tolling  bell, 
sounded  not  his  dirge  ;  warriors  bore  him  not  to 
his  last  rest. 

But  prayers  arose  from  the  grave  of  the  hero, 
though  the  priest  offered  them  not ;  and  tears  fell 


53 

upon  his  dust,  though  warriors  shed  them  not. 
A  beautiful  form  knelt  there — the  form  of  his 
beloved  ;  a  beautiful  spirit  sighed  there — the  spirit 
of  his  beloved.  The  pale  moon  rose  and  set,  and 
still  she  knelt  on  his  grave. 

At  morning  some  peasantry  came  to  look  at  the 
grave  of  the  Partisan  ;  she  was  yet  kneeling,  but 
pale  and  cold.  The  beautiful  flower  of  Podolia 
was  blighted  and  dead,  like  the  spectre  of  a  rose 
on  the  grave  of  a  warrior  ;  but  her  spirit,  free  and 
light,  had  already  joined  the  strong  soul  of  Casi- 
mir.  Such  was  the  fate  of  the  Polish  Lovers. 


5* 


54 


THE  CAUSES   OP    THE  EMIGRATION  OP 
THE  POLES. 


THERE  are  so  many  opinions  as  to  the  causes 
of  our  emigration,  thst  it  becomes  almost  a  duty 
to  explain  the  true  ones.  The  ignorant,  suppose 
that,  like  other  emigrants,  we  came  here  to  seek 
our  fortunes,  and  establish  ourselves.  Others, 
more  truly,  that  the  cause  is,  the  impossibility  of 
our  returning  to  Poland,  without  being  sent  to 
Siberia,  or  exposed  to  other  punishments.  Al- 
though this  is,  in  part,  yet  it  is  not  the  whole 
cause. 

After  the  dreadful  termination  of  our  last  revo- 
lution, Nicholas  offered  an  amnesty  to  all  the 
army,  except  some  higher  officers ;  however,  few 
returned.  Many  believing  yet  in  the  regeneration 
of  their  country,  retired  to  France  as  the  most 
congenial  shelter. 

It  may  be  well  here  to  point  out  what  led  us 
to  expect  sympathy  and  assistance  from  the 
French.  Since  the  time  of  their  great  revolution- 
ary drama,  that  country  was  considered  as  the  very 


55 

heart  of  revolution  and  of  liberal  opinions.  After 
the  fall  of  Kosciusko,  our  patriots  came  to  France, 
cherishing  the  hope  of  the  resurrection  of  their 
own  country  ;  and  that  the  revolutionary  volcano 
would  destroy  her  murderers,  and  she  would  rise 
from  her  ashes  once  more.  For  the  preservation 
of  some  remains  of  the  Polish  army,  they  formed 
two  legions,  which  served  under  Napoleon,  but 
wore  the  Polish  uniform,  and  fought  under  their 
national  banners.  These  men,  cherishing,  yet, 
hope  for  their  country,  followed  every  where  the 
great  Napoleon.  Their  bones  are  whitening  on 
the  plains  of  Italy,  of  Germany,  of  Spain  and  St. 
Domingo. 

But  Napoleon,  instead  of  reinstating  Poland, 
gave  liberty  only  to  a  small  portion  of  it,  under 
the  name  of  the  Principality  of  Warsaw. 

In  the  time  of  our  revolution,  that  patriarch  of 
liberty,  the  venerable  Lafayette,  endeavoured  to 
excite  the  feelings  of  the  French  nation  in  our 
behalf;  and  after  our  fall  we  still  cherished  the 
hope  of  success,  seeing  the  tendency  of  Europe 
to  republican  forms  of  government  and  liberal 
ideas.  Our  countrymen  from  Gallicia,  which,  at 
first,  was  their  shelter,  came  to  France,  preferring 
exile  to  the  amnesty  of  a  despot.  The  great  num- 
ber of  those  who  had  been  members  of  the 
national  government,  in  the  revolution,  remained 


56 

in  Paris  as  the  representatives  of  the  Polish 
people,  as  the  living  protestation  against  the  ty- 
ranny of  Nicholas.  They  formed  a  committee, 
which  served  as  a  government  for  the  emigrants, 
and  as  an  organ  of  national  feelings. 

Thus,  the  emigration  from  Galiicia  to  France, 
was  immense.  Galiicia,  though  belonging  to 
Austria,  is,  however,  a  Polish  province,  and  those 
who  fled  there,  found  open  doors  at  the  houses 
of  their  parents  and  friends.  The  tyranny  of 
Nicholas  even  obliged  many  of  those  who  had 
the  simplicity  to  believe  in  his  amnesty,  to  leave 
the  country  and  seek  more  secure  shelter  in  Gal- 
iicia. Thus,  the  emigration  was  divided  in  two 
parts,  one  remaining  in  France,  another  in  Galii- 
cia. The  latter  were  almost  at  home.  The 
junction  of  these  two  parties,  by  secret  corres- 
pondence, was  very  useful.  Our  committee  could 
inform  us  of  the  state  of  feeling  that  was  abroad 
among  the  nations  of  Europe,  and  we,  in  the 
mean  time,  were  exciting  the  spirit  of  the  people 
in  the  heart  of  the  country,  animating  the  dispirit- 
ed, elevating  the  depressed,  and  preparing  all  for 
another  revolution.  The  Austrian  government, 
seeing  the  tendency  of  our  measures,  waited  only 
for  a  pretence  to  exile  us  from  Galiicia.  In  1832, 
the  Austrian  Emperor,  ordered  every  Polish 
emigrant  to  present  himself  at  the  police  and  give 


57 

his  decision,  whether  he  would  return  to  Russia 
or  take  his  passport  to  France.  Thus,  many 
were  obliged  to  leave  Gallicia.  The  small  num- 
ber that  remained  were  scarcely  known  to  the 
government,  and  remained  under  the  particular 
protection  of  their  friends.  In  1833,  the  emi- 
grants in  France  projected  the  Partisan's  war. 
This  was  to  be  the  sign  to  all  the  enchained 
nations  of  Europe,  to  arise  and  go  forth  against 
their  oppressors.  This  bold  project  was  executed 
but  in  part.  The  reasons  are  little  known  to  me. 
Disturbances  again  commenced  in  Poland.  Many 
emissaries  were  sent  to  Gallicia  from  our  com- 
patriots in  France,  and  many  emigrants  of  Gal- 
licia, joined  the  war  of  the  Partisans.  The  go- 
vernment of  Austria  again  became  alarmed,  and 
issued  orders  to  all  Polish  emigrants  to  leave  Gal- 
licia immediately.  Those  who  came  not  willingly 
to  the  office  of  the  police,  were  taken  from  the 
houses  of  their  friends  by  the  force  of  arms,  and 
conducted,  under  strong  guards,  to  the  Moravian 
city,  Brun;  with  orders  to  wait  there  for  the  ar- 
rival of  their  passports  to  France,  which  were  to 
come  from  Vienna.  But,  instead  of  that,  we  were 
taken  to  a  prison,  and  told  that  the  countries  of 
Europe  would  not  receive  us  ;  and  that  we  must 
go  to  America,  or  return  to  Russia.  To  this  we 
made  an  opposition,  insisting  on  joining  our  com- 


58 

rades  in  France.  But  France,  indeed,  wished  not 
to  receive  us.  Our  hearts  trembled  to  leave  all 
our  hopes  in  Europe,  to  be  unable  to  share  the 
hardships  of  war  with  our  compatriots,  in  the  re- 
surrection of  Poland.  The  struggle  was  painful, 
but  our  resolution  was  soon  taken.  We  deter- 
mined rather  to  cross  the  ocean  than  return  to  a 
country  that  was  no  more  ours.  We  decided  to 
go.  The  Austrians  ordered  us  to  write  our  reso- 
lution, to  show,  afterwards,  to  Europe,  that  our 
decision  was  voluntary  ;  but  we  almost  all  wrote, 
44  that  our  will  is  to  go  to  France,  but  as  we  are 
told  that  that  government  refuses  to  receive  us, 
then,  obliged  by  the  Austrian  government,  we 
must  go  to  America."  We  then  proceeded  to 
Trieste,  whence  we  sailed.  The  rest  of  our  his- 
tory is  but  too  well  known. 

To  show  some  characteristics  of  our  emigration 
In  France,  I  will  cite  some  quotations  from  a  work 
of  Mickiewicz,  called  44The  books  of  the  Polish 
nation  and  the  Polish  Pilgrimage."  It  is  written 
in  the  style  of  the  Holy  Scriptures  ;  so  impressive 
and  yet  so  simple,  as  to  be  understood  by  the 
most  common  intellects,  and  indeed,  this  is  the 
purpose  of  the  work. 

"  The  soul  of  the  Polish  nation  is  the  Polish 
pilgrimage,  and  the  Pole  in  his  pilgrimage  is  not 


59 

called  a  wanderer,  for  the  wanderer  is  one  that 
roams  without  a  purpose. 

"  Neither  an  exile  ;  for  an  exile  is  one  banished 
by  his  own  legislature,  and  the  Pole  is  not  exiled 
by  his  own  legislature. 

"  The  Pole  has  not  yet  his  name  in  his  pilgrim- 
age, but  it  will  be  given  to  him  afterwards,  as  it 
was  afterwards  given  to  the  exiles  of  Christ. 

'•  And  in  the  mean  time,  a  Pole  is  called  a  pil- 
grim, for  he  made  a  vow  to  wander  to  a  holy  land, 
to  a  free  native  country,  and  he  will  wander  till 
he  find  it." 

Christ  said,  "  those  who  follow  me  must  leave 
father  and  mother,  and  risk  their  lives  for  me." 

"  The  Polish  pilgrim  says,  '  Who  would  seek 
freedom,  must  leave  his  country  and  risk  his  life 
for  her.' 

"  Because  he  who  dwells  in  his  country,  and 
suffers  slavery,  will  leave  his  country  and  his  life  ; 
and  he  who  leaves  his  country  to  defend  freedom 
with  his  life,  he  will  recover  his  native  country, 
and  will  live  for  ever/' 

To  show  yet  more,  the  spirit  of  hope  and  con- 
stancy in  my  countrymen,  I  will  give  the  address 
of  the  Polish  committee,  when  some  of  their  com. 
panions,  disheartened  with  their  misfortunes,  had 
determined  to  return  to  Poland. 


60 


ADDRESS 

OF  THE  POLISH  COMMITTEE  IN  PARIS,  TO  THE 
POLISH  EMIGRANTS. 

Warriors  and  Countrymen ! 

Once  more  fate  has  thrown  our  country 
beneath  the  feet  of  her  enraged  foe  ;  once  more 
our  countrymen  must  bow  their  necks  to  a  leader 
of  slaves,  the  murderer  of  freedom.  Once  more, 
on  the  hand  of  a  free  Pole,  the  iron  of  a  despot 
will  print  the  emblem  of  slavery  ;  once  more  it  is 
a  vice  to  call  ourselves  Polanders. 

This  fate  was  prepared  for  us  by  procrastination 
and  treachery.  For  where  can  the  enemy  boast 
of  the  triumph  of  their  arms  ?  What  field  was  a 
witness  of  their  valour  ?  When  has  a  Pole  fled 
before  a  Russian  ? 

But  although  they  felt,  for  your  leaders  had 
not  as  you  had,  a  strong  hope  in  the  resurrection 
of  the  country,  instead  of  believing  in  their  own 
strength,  instead  of  hope,  even  after  so  many 
victories,  they  only  waited  the  intervention  of 
strangers,  or  wished  to  conciliate  you,  (against  the 
will  of  the  people,)  with  your  foe. 

Your  arms  have  been  weakened  by  delay,  for 
when  the  enemy,  in  the  fear  of  total  destruction. 


61 

fled  before  you,  he  was  saved  by  the  ordered  ces- 
sation of  hostilities  ;  and  he,  whom  your  arms 
might  have  driven  to  the  Dnieper,  remained  on 
the  banks  of  the  Vistula. 

After,  wishing  to  extinguish  that  fire  which 
animated  you  in  the  midst  of  battles,  they  permit- 
ted him  to  cross  the  Vistula,  and  to  ravage  the 
country,  and  when  you  would  have  driven  back 
the  invader,  they  ordered  you  as  in  derision,  to 
defend  yourselves  within  the  walls.  There  hor- 
rible treachery  divides  the  army ;  to  finish  this 
work,  born  of  the  darkness  of  hell,  they  jest  with 
your  holiest  feelings,  and  would  put  you — you, 
freemen  !  in  chains,  and  give  you  to  the  hands  of 
the  oppressor.  Your  hearts  trembled  at  the  thought 
of  the  future. — -What !  shame  on  the  forehead  of 
a  Pole  ?  No — never  !  He  may  tear  asunder  the 
tenderest  ties,  spill  the  heart's  blood,  but  the  blush 
of  shame  dies  not  his  cheek.  You  preferred  exile 
to  shame ;  you  came  to  a  foreign  country,  for 
there,  where  your  ancestors  breathed  a  free  air, 
you  would  not  die  slaves.  Your  eyes  would  meet 
faces  that  scorned  your  misfortunes.  The  tyrant 
of  Poland  would  order  you  to  name  that  your  na- 
tive country  ;  he  would  order  you  to  kiss  his  hand, 
red  with  the  blood  of  your  brothers,  and  to  call 
him  your  deliverer  from  anarchy,  demagogues  and 
insurgents. 

6 


62 

There  is  no  native  country  where  freedom  is 
not.  The  sun  rises  not  for  the  slave,  the  earth  is 
not  adorned  for  him,  and  his  food  is  changed  to 
poison.  Before  such  disgrace,  you  fled,  brethren. 
The  black  bread  and  fresh  water,  to  you  was  a 
sweet  repast,  when  it  was  not  moistened  by  tears 
of  shame  and  sorrow. 

But  let  us  breathe  more  freely  after  the  weight 
of  such  remembrances ;  let  our  eyes  be  cheered 
by  the  bright  prospects  of  the  future ;  let  our 
thoughts  be  elevated  with  this  blessed  hope. 
Hear  you  not  the  prayers  of  Europe  and  America 
for  our  cause,  hear  you  not  the  songs  of  praise 
addressed  to  you.  Every  where  is  heard  the 
voice  of  respect  and  astonishment  at  your  deeds  ; 
every  where  hospitable  doors  are  thrown  open  to 
the  Pole,  for  his  wandering  is  trouble.  And  in 
that  wandering  let  us  be  constant  to  the  end.  This 
will  be  the  last  experiment  of  our  strength.  The 
nation  cannot  perish  entirely.  Our  language  yet 
lives,  our  customs  and  our  religion,  and  the  me- 
mory of  our  greatness  has  not  departed.  The 
memory  of  the  Polish  lordship  over  those  who 
now  enchain  our  country,  is  not  yet  effaced. 
Our  swords  are  not  yet  broken — the  Polish  steed 
will  yet  bound  beneath  the  weight  of  the  Polish 
warrior  and  the  lances  of  our  lancers,  and  Krakus, 


63 

the  star  of  liberty,  will  yet  sparkle.  The  return 
of  a  revenging  fate  is  not  afar. 

Then,  return  not  as  slaves  to  the  land  where 
you  can  return  as  victors,  return  not  to  the  land 
polluted  by  the  feet  of  the  Bachker.*  Let  not 
the  hand  of  a  free  Pole  embrace  the  hand  of  a 
slave  of  despotism.  The  time  will  come,  when 
the  voice  of  a  trumpet  shall  call  you  again  to  your 
native  plains.  There  the  graves  of  your  murder- 
ed biethren  will  open,  and  avengers  shall  rise 
from  their  bones.  Let  us  invoke  their  shades, 
but  with  sword  in  hand,  for  in  no  other  way  will 
they  recognize  us,  and  if  they  see  our  shame, 
their  groans  would  say  before  heaven  that  we, 
with  our  cowardice  had  troubled  their  last  repose. 

Let  the  independent  and  free  Poland  of  Jagel- 
lons,  or  eternal  death,  be  our  cry  ! 

*  The  savage  tribes  of  Siberia.  They  were  in  the 
Russian  army,  and  distinguished  themselves  by  their 
robberies  and  great  cruelties. 


APPENDIX, 


CONTAINING  A  SHORT  NOTICE  OF  UKRAINE  AND 
PODOLIA. 


Ukraine,  one  of  the  most  beautiful  provinces  of 
Poland,  lies  in  the  southern  part,  bounded  on  one 
side  by  Podolia,  and  on  the  other  by  Russia.  Its 
boundaries  were  not  limited  on  the  south ;  each 
war  formed  and  destroyed  them ;  sometimes  it 
extended  even  to  the  Black  sea.  Ukraine,  which 
contains  even  now  many  large  and  deserted 
prairies,  called  by  Mickiewicz,  the  dry  oceans, 
was  formerly  of  a  wild  and  desert-like  appearance, 
and  inhabited  principally  by  the  Cossacks. 

The  commencement  of  the  history  of  these  wild 
Knights  of  the  Desert,  is  very  strange.  Some 
islands  lying  in  the  Dnieper,  became  the  retreat 
of  all  the  outlaws  of  Poland  and  Russia.  They 
formed  a  kind  of  chivalric  order,  if  it  may  be  called 
so;  they  never  married,  and  sustained  themselves 
by  robbery.  However,  they  robbed  only  the 
Turks  and  Tartars  ;  they  acknowledged  the  autho- 
rity of  the  Polish  King,  and  were  of  great  assist- 
ance to  Poland.  King  Stephen  Batory,  seeing 


65 

their  numbers  increasing  to  such  extent,  formed 
them  into  a  more  regular  body,  in  order  that  they 
might  act  as  sentinels  on  the  frontiers  of  Turkey 
and  Tartary.  He  also  gave  them  for  their  capital, 
the  castle  Trechtymirovv,  and  granted  them  many 
other  privileges.  Thus,  under  the  protection  of 
the  laws,  their  number  was  increased  by  all  the 
adventurers  from  the  surrounding  country.  Their 
strength  consisted  principally  in  their  cavalry, 
though  every  Cossack  could  fight  equally  on  foot 
as  on  horseback.  But  as  the  Tartars,  the  Cos- 
sack life  and  death  was  on  horseback.  Living 
such  a  wild  life  and  cherishing  such  savage  feel- 
ings, the  love  of  freedom  became  a  common  sen- 
timent, and  as  in  one  of  their  songs : 

"  The  Cossack  never  knew  a  Lord ;  from  a 
man  he  became  a  bird  of  the  desert,  for  he  has 
grown  on  horseback.  He  weeps  not,  he  knows 
nothing  of  long  speeches,  he  knows  nothing  of  the 
things  of  heaven,  and  on  earth  he  knows  nothing 
but  blood." 

They  distinguished  themselves  in  our  wars  with 
the  Turks  and  Russians.  Sometimes  in  their 
light  canoes,  they  crossed  the  Black  Sea  and  fed 
the  banks  of  Asia  Minor  with  blood  and  fire. 
They  went  even  to  Constantinople — and  the  em- 
peror of  Turkey  has  beheld  from  the  windows  of 
his  seraglio,  the  city  wrapt  in  flames  by  Cossacks. 
6* 


66 

They  were  also  distinguished  in  that  war,  in 
which,  after  the  battle  of  Klusin,  three  Russian 
czars  were  made  prisoners  by  the  Polish  chief. 
Their  light  cavalry  penetrated  even  to  Asia,  and 
they  were  always  cruel,  victorious  and  savage. 
But  this  was  almost  the  last  action  in  which  they 
assisted  Poland.  Robbery  was  their  chief  occupa- 
tion, and  with  their  unquiet  spirit,  having  no  other 
object  but  plunder,  they  robbed  Poland  itself.  Per- 
haps too  severe  measures  were  taken  to  subdue 
them,  having  as  they  did,  such  ideas  of  savage 
liberty,  they  were  not  to  be  conquered  at  once. 
They  were  taken  by  the  Polish  nobility  as  the 
peasant,  but  they  soon  had  their  revenge.  A 
petty  circumstance  gave  them  the  opportunity  to 
rebel.  One  Czaplicki,  a  Polish  nobleman,  se- 
duced the  wife  of  Bohdan  (Jhmielnicki  the  Cos- 
sack chief.  The  wounded  pride  and  love  of  the 
Cossack,  remained  not  long  unrevenged.  He  be- 
came the  leader  of  a  rebellion,  and  in  a  short  time 
Czaplicki  was  cruelly  murdered,  Podolia  and  Vol- 
hynia  drowned  in  blood  and  tears.  Bohdan  join- 
ed to  the  qualities  of  a  greot  general  the  cruelty  of  a 
savage.  The  Polish  general,  the  prince  Wisznio- 
wiecki,  was  forced  to  entrench  himself  in  his  cas- 
tle, and  King  John  Casmir  was  obliged  to  go  to 
his  assistance.  But  Bohdan  went  against  him,  and 
he  was  left  entirely  at  the  mercy  of  the  Cossack 


67 

chief.     A  treaty  was  made,  but  it  continued  but 
for   a   short  time.     Chmielnicki  rebelled  again, 
and  again  Podolia,  Ukraine,  and  all  the  south   of 
Poland,  was  deluged  in   blood.     The   war  was 
carried  on  with  cruelties  on  both  sides ;  we   may 
judge  of  it  by  the  following  example :  When  a 
town  in  Ukraine  was  besieged  and  taken  by  the 
enemy,  a  woman   placed  herself  on  a  barrel  of 
gunpowder  and  fired  it,  singing  at  the  same  time. 
This  fact  speaks  more  than  books  of  reasoning, 
on  despair  and  cruelty.     At  last,  on  the  fields   of 
Boremle,  a  small  town  in  Volhynia,  the  fate  of  two 
armies  were  to  be  decided.     This  bloody  battle 
continued  ten  days,  and  resulted  in  the  victory  of 
the  Poles,  and  the  destruction  of  30,000  Cossacks. 
Bohdan,  soon  after  this  decisive  battle,  placed  him- 
self under  the  protection  of  Russia  and  refused 
ours.     Such  are  the  circumstances  by  which   we 
lost  that  warlike  tribe,  so  useful  to  our  country. 
Some  remains  of  them,  enslaved  and  degenerated, 
remained  yet  in  Ukraine.     The  cruel  policy  of 
Russia,  always  harassing  Poland,  continued  to  ex- 
cite those  remains  to  insurrection  and  robbery. — 
Gonta,  an  outlaw,  celebrated  in  popular  songs  for 
his  cruelty,  became  the  leader  of  a  rebellion. — 
Zluman,  a  city  of  Ukraine,   in  one  night,   was 
plundered,  its  inhabitants  murdered,  and  the  un- 
fortunate   Podolia  became   again  the    theatre   of 


68 

bloodshed  and  distress.  We  had  no  army  in  that 
part  of  the  country,  and  Russia,  artfully  offered 
us  assistance,  and  sent  troops  there,  but  the  assis- 
tant was  worse  than  the  enemy,  and  the  Polish 
people  repeat  yet  the  name  of  Colonel  Drewicz, 
the  leader  of  the  Russians,  with  the  greatest  of 
horor.  At  length  the  sleeping  spirit  of  our  coun- 
try arose,  after  the  fatigues  of  war,  and  entered  in- 
to the  confederation  of  Bar.  In  this  confederation 
the  family  of  Pulaski,  the  bishop  Krasinski  and 
others,  began  a  war  against  the  Russians  and  the 
King  of  Poland,  who  was  under  their  protection. 
This  war  was  frequently  renewed,  and  in  it  fell 
all  the  family  of  Pulaski,  except  Casimir,  who 
remained  always  at  the  head  of  the  opposition. 
The  result  of  that  confederation  was  too  dreadful 
for  us.  It  ended  in  the  first  division  of  Poland, 
between  Russia,  Prussia,  and  Austria,  and  the 
banishment  of  Pulaski.  He  came  to  America, 
served  in  the  army  of  Washington,  and  died  as 
the  hero  of  the  battle  of  Savannah.  The  fate  of 
Colonel  Drewicz  is  unknown,  and  bis  glory  re- 
recorded only  with  his  cruelties. 

Such  was  the  fate  of  Ukraine.  Of  Podolia,  I 
will  yet  speak.  It  was  the  cradle  of  my  child- 
hood, the  spot  where  the  first  flowers  of  my  youth- 
ful thoughts  expanded. 

It  is  a  lovely,  beautiful  fertile  and  romantic  conn- 


69 

try  ;  and  in  ancient  times,  it  was  called  the  granary 
of  Poland.  But  a  happy  fate  was  not  for  Podo- 
lia.  Lying  on  the  frontiers  of  Turkey,  it  has 
always  been  the  theatre  of  cruel  scenes,  from  the 
ravages  of  the  Turks,  Tartars  and  Cossacks.  In 
the  17th  century,  a  great  part  of  it,  together  with 
its  capital,  Kamienniec,  was  subdued  by  the  Turks, 
and  neither  the  sword  of  John  Sobieski,  nor  the 
valour  of  its  inhabitants  could  deliver  it.  At  last 
the  King,  Augustus  II.,  regained  it  by  treaty. 
Kamienniec  has  yet  some  relics  of  the  Turks, 
which  give  it  a  foreign  and  oriental  cast.  The  old 
castle  of  Kamienniec,  now  in  ruins,  speaks  with 
its  dark  stones  of  yet  darker  times,  and  stands  as 
a  spectre  amid  the  green  trees  that  surround  it. 

The  misfortunes  of  Podolia,  have  imprinted 
their  traces  on  its  inhabitants.  The  people  have  a 
fantastic,  romantic  and  poetic  character.  It  may 
be  said,  with  truth,  that  Podolia  is  to  Poland,  as 
Scotland  is  to  England.  No  people  are  so  preju- 
diced as  the  peasantry  of  Podolia.  The  church- 
yards are  full  of  ghosts  and  vampires  ;  every  grave 
in  the  field  and  every  cross,  is  consecrated  by 
some  legend.  If  you  ask  the  Podolian  peasant  of 
the  plague,  he  will  tell  you  that  a  woman  has  pass- 
ed there  in  a  white  dress,  with  one  hand  waving 
the  habiliments  of  the  grave,  with  the  other  hold- 
ing a  black  handkerchief — and  she  is  the  plague. 


70 

None  of  them  die  without  the  prophesy  of  the 
owl's  cry  or  the  dog's  groan. 

Podolia,  in  the  second  division  of  Poland,  was 
changed  to  a  Russian  province.  In  the  revolution 
it  revolted,  but  without  the  assistance  of  the  regu- 
lar troops,  and  the  insurrection  soon  subsided. 

I  close  by  a  song,  alluding  to  the  time  that  Po- 
dolia was  subject  to  Turkey  : 


THE  INSURRECTION. 

Sons  of  Podolia  rise  ! 
'Tis  time  to  burst  your  chains  ! 

For  o'er  your  homes  and  lives, 
A  Turkish  tyrant  reigns. 

Who  loves  his  bleeding  land, 
Who  worships  Liberty — 

Rise  !  burst  the  galling  band, 
Rise  !  and  be  free  ! 

Brothers,  arise,  arise  ! 
Your  breast  shall  be  a  shield, 

Your  arms  and  strength,  shall  be 
The  weapons  you  shall  wield. 

What  to  a  fearless  breast, 
Can  be  those  hosts  of  hell ? 

Though  they  shall  pour  out  blood 
And  write  their  laws  with  steel. 


71 

Misfortune's  chosen  sons, 
Ye  nourished  by  despair, 

Unsheath  your  faithful  swords, 
And  on  to  war  once  more. 

Leave  those  that  round  ye  weep, 
Leave  home  and  friends  once  more  ; 

That  sword  though  dimmed  with  tears, 
Shall  glow  with  Turkish  gore. 

Arise  !  your  toils  shall  give 
Peace  to  your  country's  breast, — 

Freedom  to  those  ye  love, 
And  to  your  fireside  rest. 

Brothers,  arise,  arise  ! 
And  let  the  tyrants  see, 

Upon  Podolia's  plain 
A  shrine  to  liberty. 

The  body  of  our  foes 
The  offering  shall  be, 

And  o'er  the  Cecoran*  fields, 
Their  blood  shall  wander  free. 

Brothers,  arise,  arise  ! 
Your  breasts  shall  be  a  shield, 

Your  arms  and  strength,  shall  be 
The  weapons  you  shall  wield. 

ZABOROWSKI. 

*  A  place  celebrated  by  the  death  of  a  Polish  chief 
murdered  by  the  Turks. 


72 
SONG. 

The  bastions  of  Kamienniec  lie 

Wrapt  in  the  drapery  of  night, 
And  the  pale  moon  their  sentinel, 

Beneath  the  waves  has  hid  her  light. 

'Tis  dark  and  silent.     Here  and  there 

Is  heard  some  sound,  some  voice  suppressed, 

That  seems  to  call  departed  shades, 

Back  from  their  homes  of  dreamless  rest. 

A  sad'ning  influence  steals  o'er  me, 

As  if  upon  my  spirit's  strings, 
Unseen,  angelic  fingers  play, 

And  of  Podolia's  sorrows  sings. 

Her  hope  has  fled.    Where  gleamed  free  swords, 
Now  clanks  the  chain  and  groans  the  slave, — 

Where  Freedom's  standard  once  unfurled, 
The  flags  of  mourning  sadly  wave. 


YA  0754 


